The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series) (28 page)

“Once she is level again we can begin to move most of the guns aft,” Banks told Caulfield and King, as he rejoined them by the break of the quarterdeck. “It should be a simple matter to remount the barge on the forward section and pump it dry; then we can set to work there.”

They had previously decided that the extra couple of days it would take to raise the frigate's bows was worthwhile. By reversing the cant, and cleaning that part of her hull, much of the ship's bottom could be cleared. Being fully coppered,
Scylla
would not suffer any material damage from the build up of marine growth, but removing it would give her a fresh turn of speed; something that could be a vital factor in the coming action.

“The caulkers and pitchmen are ready to start on the half and quarterdecks,” Caulfield announced. “And I think we can risk painting the forecastle, despite her being on the camel.”

“If the recoil from an eighteen pounder didn't shake her off, a few painters are hardly likely to make any difference,” Banks agreed. “And then the stores can be taken on once more.” He looked about: the mention of lading reminded him he had not seen the sailing master for some time. “Mr Fraiser is ashore, I assume?”

King shook his head. “Below, sir. He has not left the ship since we arrived.”

Banks was surprised. For a man to shun every chance of exploring a foreign port was almost unheard of. But then there was much about the sailing master that he did not know or understand.

“Shall I send for him, sir?” King asked.

“No, leave him be.” The captain sighed. “It will be a day or two before we begin lading; there will be time enough.”

“And then, do we put to sea once more, sir?” Caulfield enquired cautiously. The ship would certainly be able; his question really should have been, what were Banks' intentions? They might return home, and could expect to raise England well within three months, but that was ignoring another obstacle that needed to be overcome first.

The French frigate had been spotted on several occasions since the attack at the Jamestown anchorage. Usually she was accompanied by a corvette, but once a third vessel had also been sighted, and this time there was no dispute: it was the East India Company packet. That she had been captured was sufficiently bad news, but it also made facing the French force even more imperative. Banks had every confidence that Lady Hatcher could hold her own, even when in enemy hands. She would doubtless be released at the first opportunity, as was the custom, but being in enemy hands could hardly be a pleasant experience. Were he to sail off, abandoning the Company's Island and leaving their first fleet in from the East to be ravaged by a powerful French raider, he would upset many important people. But to allow Lady Hatcher to remain a prisoner when, in theory at least, he had the power to release her, would certainly never do. She might be openly planning his professional destruction, but to head home apparently without a thought for her welfare would only strengthen the woman's hand, and must certainly finish his career.

And he had no reason to avoid a fight. With a clean hull, fresh cordage, new canvas and what would be full magazines of powder, there were no material grounds why
Scylla
might not acquit herself credibly enough. Having to face more than one ship was going to make the job harder, but even then, with a full and practised crew, no British naval captain should be disconcerted by such a prospect. More to the point, the Royal Navy had acquired the habit of victory against high odds, so much so as to make it commonplace. His fellow officers and the public in general would look unfavourably on a naval officer who lost such an action; it would be almost as bad as if he were to simply avoid it completely. Should the French prove victorious, and somehow he managed to survive and be exchanged, it would matter little what other damage had been done to him professionally, he would never command a King's ship again.

But the fact remained that there was something about this particular enemy that had affected Banks in a subtle but important way. The French captain was clearly no fool; he had consistently handled his ship with flair and ability, while proving himself to be a determined and wily opponent. His ship was also obviously well-manned: the seamanship needed to clear that anchorage with a damaged rig had been exemplary, especially as it was undertaken whilst under fire from powerful shore batteries, while her gunnery was superior to any Banks had encountered in a foreign vessel. Banks guessed that the entire crew would have been hand-picked especially for such a mission; he was to face the best of the best, and it was a daunting prospect.

Of course he had met such odds and worse in the past, so why now was he feeling the pre-fight nerves of a raw recruit? Perhaps it was having Sarah with him? He had never fought a battle in a similar situation; she would not be physically on board but, even with her ashore, he feared there was little chance of the single mindedness he always relied on in action. Or maybe it was his own people: the officers and men he had come to know and trust for what might well prove to be a little too long. There could be no doubt of their efficiency – seldom had he sailed with such well-trained and reliable men. But they were all in desperate need of a rest, and the odd evening of shore leave on what was effectively a military installation was by no means sufficient. A couple had already run, one of which to be later discovered murdered. The two events might be connected but that would remain uncertain until the other deserter was finally caught. Banks was still unwilling to believe that a member of
Scylla
's crew would wantonly take another's life, and was harbouring a private hope that the killing may yet turn out the work of a Company soldier or civilian. But even accepting that there was a bad one amongst his people, the vast majority were sound enough. All they lacked was a spell of rest in a proper English harbour, and that was the one thing he could not supply.

He noticed that Caulfield and King were regarding him strangely, and remembered that he had been asked a question. “Yes, we shall sail as soon as we are able,” he replied, trying hard to make the words sound more positive than his thoughts. “We shall have to work the men up of course; they have been idle for far too long. But with the powder and shot promised, I see no reason why all should not be back to full fighting fitness before the end of the week.”

It was clear that his words had inspired them, and both men nodded approvingly. But however long they had known him, and whatever the trust that lay between the three, Banks knew they were being fooled, and felt guilty as a consequence.

* * *

T
he horse had been showing signs of discomfort for some while and Dav
id
, the driver, had already rested him twice. But it was now less than two miles to the Clarkeson's estate, and mainly downhill, so they decided to continue. Then, as they were entering yet another area of forest, he stopped once more, and began to cough terribly.

“Oh leave him be,” Julia told the servant, who was trying to persuade the animal off the path. “It is not so terribly far; we shall just have to complete the journey on foot.”

“That would be fine,” Kate said. “It is a splendid day for a walk, but I am concerned about our charge,” she added, looking directly at Sarah. “Do you feel up to some exercise, my dear? In your condition it might not be the best of activities.”

“I am happy to walk, but would wish to take some necessary time first,” she replied, blushing slightly. “It is early in my confinement for such a thing to be a problem, I own.”

“Well, what say David here goes on to the Clarkeson's,” Julia suggested, clambering out of the vehicle. “He can set off now, and return with another cart and animal. We shall follow in our own time and meet him on the way. Would that suit, David?”

The man, who had been comforting the horse, turned back to the women and smiled readily. “That would be fine, Miss Julia.” he said. “Rufus here, ain't so bad, but he’s in no mood for more pullin'. I should have known before we took him.”

“Never mind,” Kate said, determined that nothing further would spoil the day. “You go on ahead to the Clarkeson's. Take some water if you wish, there are two bottles in addition to that for the animal. We shall meet again shortly; the horse will do well enough here.”

“You do not wish me to stay with you, Miss Julia?” the black man asked.

“Lord no, David!” his mistress laughed. “Little can happen to us hereabouts, and if it does, well, there are three of us: we can more than look after ourselves!”

* * *

T
immons watched him go. From his vantage point less than a hundred yards off, he had even caught snatches of their conversation, and was in no confusion as to what was happening. He also knew that time would be needed before the servant was properly out of hearing, and time was something he had plenty of. The women would not make as fast a progress as the servant; he reckoned on half an hour, and there would be a good mile or more distance between the two groups. Then he would just have to wait for a modicum of cover.

But when one suddenly jumped down from the carriage and broke away from the other two his mind began to recalculate. She seemed to be heading straight for him; that, or the massive oak he was hiding behind. Timmons began to grow concerned; he did not think he had been spotted, but such positive action raised doubts, and he lowered himself further into the thick vegetation.

He had been following them for some while, keeping track of the buggy as it crept along the rough track. Through open areas he would stay back in the last of forest cover, then sprint forward when they reached another patch of vegetation. Such stalking was easy, especially when the quarry was oblivious and otherwise distracted. Even now, the thicket where he hid was surely dense enough, and his clothing blended perfectly with the dry bracken and rough gorse. The woman came on, though, and was apparently making directly for where he stood: his body tensed further.

He might have been seen, or even sensed: such things were known to have happened before even if her expression, which was getting clearer by the second, was completely blank, and not of a person expecting to discover another near by. There was something vaguely familiar in the face, but Timmons' brain was fully set on what was about to take place. She had closed to within ten feet, and he was just getting ready to run when, totally without warning, she took a sweeping glance about before hitching up her skirts, and squatting down in the midst of a small clearing.

His heart continued to pound as he watched, and slowly emotions emerged that would have been far better controlled. His prey, so perfectly presented, was half facing him, but clearly distracted and, as he stole out from behind his cover, did not look up. The well-remembered thrill was now passing through his body, and driving him on as effectively as any conscious intention. He pulled the heavy, sand-filled cosh from his pocket and wrapped the lanyard about his wrist, already knowing that this was going to be easy.

* * *

“G
racious, whatever was that?” Julia said, after the single and suddenly curtailed scream echoed about the small forest. She looked to Kate who had been trying to persuade the horse to take some water, but the woman was already charging off through the undergrowth in roughly the direction that Sarah had taken. Julia followed; both were wearing long dresses and, with no defined path, their progress was slow. There was movement up ahead, however, and soon the shape of a figure standing next to a large oak tree could be made out. It was a man. He had certainly not been the cause of the noise, although he may well have instigated it
.

Kate slowed and put one hand out to stop Julia, who dutifully came to a panting halt next to her.

“Wait here,” she hissed. “If there is any trouble, make for the road, and try and catch your servant.”

Julia's face was now white. “What are you going to do?” she asked, but Kate was already moving off.

“Sarah?” she shouted. “Sarah, are you there?”

* * *

T
immons ducked down at the first shout. In front of him, what he now recognised as the captain's wife lay sprawled on the ground. Her limbs were thrown out like a tossed rag doll and a small trail of blood was starting to flow from the side of her head. The shout came again but, even if he cursed silently to himself, his ire was indisputably up and there was little he did not feel capable of. The cosh was still in his hand, and he spun it round in the air as a second woman entered the clearing and looked directly at him.

“Timmons!” she shouted, and he felt a moment of acute panic. It was the surgeon's wife; probably the last person he had expected to see. From a distance he had not recognised any of the faces, neither had he tried: faces actually meant little to him. But Mrs Manning was known to be a tough old bird, and he might have thought twice about making a move had he known she was about. “Whatever are you doing here, Timmons?” she continued, still pinning him with her expression. “And what have you done to Lady Banks?”

Now immature guilt replaced his initial fear. It was as if he had been caught in a mildly immoral act, not having just taken a swipe at the captain's wife. The woman lay before him now, her legs obscenely bared almost as high as the knees. He spun the cosh in the air again, more in bravado than any attempt to intimidate or threaten, and was surprised when Mrs Manning immediately drew back. Then he began to grow confident.

He stepped forward, over the body, and towards her. She retreated further and Timmons knew again that there would be no problem. She had turned and was trying to run almost as he reached her, and there was a scream from further off as his left hand closed upon the woman's arm. The third could wait; he was suitably occupied for the time being, and nothing was going to stop him.

His cosh came up, and Mrs Manning went to fend it off, with an ineffectual wave of her right hand. But he was far too good for her, far too strong, far too experienced: he was in total control.